A good compromise is better than two stubborn armies battling over a single sandcastle.
As originally planned, we entered the lounge and settled into a secluded corner. Though the hunters gave no outward sign of acknowledgment, I had no doubt they were keenly aware of our presence. I remained silent for a moment. Although no one could see him, Simon stood behind me and slid his hand over my shoulder. His touch was weightless, yet I felt it immediately. I closed my eyes for a moment.
The stranger came to Jo again and again. Every mealtime he would open the cell door and enter in utmost silence.
"I brought food," the monster said, handing Jo a loaf of bread and a cup of water.
She nodded. That was the first time, Jo reacted. That was the first time her gaze lost a bit of its sharpness.
This time, the boy stayed, watching her with an odd mix of curiosity and caution. Jo didn't retreat to the back of the cell but allowed the monster to observe her. She ate the bread with a calm demeanor, as if she were dining with a mere human. I wanted to shake my head. You're letting your guard down too soon!
Yet, deep inside, a spark of relief flickered. The Jo I knew was still in there somewhere. There was hope that she wouldn't hate me forever.
"Will you tell me your name?" Jo asked suddenly.
The boy blinked in surprise before replying. "Poisonfang."
Jo frowned. "What?"
The boy shrugged, his expression unreadable. "I am nobody. A nobody doesn't deserve a name. I've only ever been called the poisonfang vampire."
He left quickly, as if realizing he had revealed too much.
This boy was different from the monsters who kidnapped Jo. There was something quite pitiful about him, something that made Jo feel sorry for him. I don't think she herself could have quite put her finger on what it was, though. I saw the way she looked at him—the same way she used to look at injured animals.
I sat beside her in the stillness.
"Don't do this," I whispered to myself. "Don't trust him."
Jo didn't respond. She continued eating the dry, tasteless loaf, her eyes distant. I sighed heavily.
"I'll come for you soon. I'll make them all pay for your suffering. I'll set everything right. Trust me!"
A slow, faint smile crossed Jo's face, and for a fleeting moment, I thought she had heard me. Then her tears fell, and she sobbed silently, without a sound. She gulped down her sorrow, stood, and walked across the cell to pick up a necklace from the floor.
She stared at it for a long moment before a few tears fell onto the pendant.
"I hated you so much," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I wanted you to suffer like I did... I blamed you for everything. I hated you and every monster."
"I know."
"He's not a bad person, is he?" she asked, perhaps to herself as much as to me. "Not all monsters are bad, right?"
I didn't know how to answer. It didn't matter—Jo wouldn't hear me anyway. I remained silent.
She crouched down, pressing the pendant to her heart, her body shaking slightly. I pressed my lips into a thin line and, though I knew this was just a fragment of the past, an illusion, I embraced Jo's trembling form. After a moment, the trembling stopped, and her figure dissolved into a swirl of colorful smoke between my arms.
I opened my eyes and came back to reality. I nodded a barely perceptible thank you.
Turning to Alex and Rolo, I began to explain in a hushed tone. Despite the low volume, I was confident that while the hunters couldn't hear, Alex and the kid caught every word clearly.
Suddenly, the door burst open, drawing all eyes to the newcomer.
"Killey Axl Hornsby," I announced quietly, "Second only to Des in being the biggest troublemaker in the family."
The latter half of my statement was unnecessary; anyone could tell at a glance. Killey exuded the quintessential bad boy aura—dangerous smile, lip piercings, and a motorbike. He strolled in, grinning at the assembled hunters before flopping into one of the armchairs with an air of complete ease. Casually, he propped his booted feet on the ornate antique glass table.
Teeth clenched, fists tightened, and low snarls echoed, but Killey remained unfazed, surveying his comrades with a smug smile. His gaze finally settled on me, his grin widening as if to remind me of the debt I owed him—a debt he would undoubtedly collect one day.
Samuel Guintoli rose, brushing Killey's feet off the table with a sharp motion. Killey's gaze lifted slowly, meeting Guintoli's piercing eyes.
"Behave," Guintoli hissed.
Killey didn't argue; he merely turned his head away, muttering something under his breath in annoyance.
Samuel Guintoli was a striking figure—lean, with tanned skin and dark hair, exuding the refined elegance of a nobleman. He had little tolerance for insolence, a fact he had made abundantly clear countless times. Yet, Hornsby always tested the limits, and it was evident Guintoli's patience was wearing thin.
Once the tension subsided, I resumed introducing Alex and Rolo to the hunters. The sheer number of names in this secretive organization was exhausting, and I found myself weary of the endless introductions. Thankfully, the monotony was broken when someone announced that dinner was ready.
Instead of the usual dining room, we were led into room two, typically reserved for strategic planning. It was smaller than the other, but undeniably more lavish. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting soft light over the space, while the green tablecloth on the oval table was more expensive than all of my previous salaries combined.
Velvet-covered chairs surrounded the table, each one intricately carved with the image of a different beast on the backrest. At the head of the table sat my grandfather, his position marked only by the larger size of his chair. Behind him, expansive windows were draped with heavy poison-green curtains, casting a dim, unsettling glow across the room.
The room was filled with the hunters involved in the strategy discussions. I didn't need to take a headcount, I already knew most of them. George Willingham sat to my grandfather's right, flanked by Samuel Guintoli, Roiz, and Vincent Asaro. Killey, Naren Litwack, and Stefan rounded out the group.
The food arrived shortly after, an array of delicacies so extravagant that I could never afford them. The waitstaff moved with practiced efficiency, setting the table with dishes I couldn't even identify.
The young chef wished us bon appétit, bowed, and swiftly departed. Despite the delicious spread, the atmosphere was tense. I could barely manage a few bites, while Alex eagerly dug into multiple courses.
When everyone had finished, the waiters cleared the plates and poured some of the finest wine into our glasses.
Finally, my grandfather's sharp gaze locked onto mine, a cold intensity that could freeze anyone who wasn't used to it.
"So, what are we up against?"
I didn't rush to answer. I let the silence stretch for a moment, savoring the tension. Then, with a calmness that only heightened the weight of my words, I replied, "Vampires. Four hundred and seventy at the last count, though I suspect we're closer to six hundred now."
"Tell me about the Fifth," he ordered.
I twirled the wine glass between my fingers, the garnet juice curling silky.
I swirled my wine glass slowly, the garnet liquid tracing its own pattern, the tension growing thicker with every second of silence. "No one knows much about him," I said, my tone casual, as though discussing a trivial matter. But beneath the surface, the words carried a weight that I could feel pressing on all of us. "Half-blood. The child of a vampire and a fae."
The old man's reaction was immediate, though he kept it carefully controlled. His face shifted, muscles tightening as his jaw clenched. His eyes darkened, a dangerous gleam flickering in them—something primal, like the beginning of a storm. His hands, resting on the table, visibly tensed, his knuckles turning white beneath the rough, worn skin.
For a moment, I thought he might snap, but the old man was better than that. His fury simmered beneath the surface, waiting for a moment that would allow him to release it in the most precise, devastating way.
"He has vampire venom, or at least, that's what they call it," I continued, my voice as calm as ever, deliberately not acknowledging the storm that was brewing across the table. "But it's more than that. He doesn't just lead his own kind; he creates his army. Every newborn he makes owes him their absolute loyalty. They're not people. They're pawns—expendable, easily sacrificed for his greater purpose."
As I continued speaking, the old man's face went through a subtle transformation. His eyes narrowed just a fraction, as if something within him clicked, a realization sweeping over him. His fists trembled ever so slightly.
The cold fury that had simmered in him before now melted into something far more dangerous: a deep understanding of his position. He was cornered from the start. The weight of it pressed down on him in that instant, and his expression darkened further, his lips tightening in silent acknowledgment.
I knew the game, and I was playing it well. It wasn't just about the battle with the Fifth anymore. It wasn't just about tactics, strategy, or numbers. It was personal.
If the vote hadn't gone my way, I would've simply told him, right then and there, that the Fifth was the monster who forcibly sired me. But some things are better left unsaid for now. The fewer who knew, the better.
He had no choice but to aid me from the start. I could see it in the way his face changed, the realization dawning on him that this fight wasn't something he could walk away from. His own blood, the weight of his own daughter's fate, now tied him to me.
I exchanged a look with Rolo. He nodded, then stood up, drawing everyone's attention with the quiet certainty in his movements.
To be honest, I never would have thought he could give such an accurate description of the Redchild villa—everything from its seventy-two rooms to its eleven corridors, even down to the minute details of the ventilation system. I had no idea how he'd gotten this information, but it was spot-on. When he finished, he simply sat back down, as if the revelation hadn't cost him a thing.
Willingham, who had been scribbling notes here and there, slid his paper forward, positioning it just in front of my grandfather. The old man glanced at the strategist's notes, his eyes flicking quickly over the lines. His gaze swept the room, assessing the hunters one by one, as though weighing them against the new data we had just laid bare.
The tension in the room thickened. Everyone knew something had shifted, but no one dared to speak.
"We use misdirection," the old man declared, his voice crisp and commanding. "Alpha Team, led by Dénes Roubál, attacks from the front, drawing out most of the vampires defending the house."
I stood, the chair creaking ominously beneath me as I rose with deliberate calm. The room seemed to tense at the sudden shift.
"I object," I said, my voice cutting through the air like a knife. "How could a single team hold off the bulk of the vampire army?"
The old man's gaze, sharp as a blade, flicked up to meet mine. His eyes were cold, calculating.
"Of course," he continued, unfazed by my challenge, "after the lure has proved successful, they will be supported on both sides by the pair of Hornsby and Wick, and George and Stefan with their troops."
In that moment, I understood the true nature of the plan. It wasn't just about strategy; it was about eliminating my brother. The old man would not stand in Willingham's way. What happened if the supporting troops were delayed for any reason? If they failed, my brother would be left exposed.
I leaned forward, my tone steely and unforgiving. "And how will they survive until then?"
The old man didn't flinch, his expression like stone. "If they can't handle it, I'll find someone else for the job."
Des spoke up, his voice controlled. "Enough. I obey your command."
"No, you don't," I snapped, the tension between us thickening, my words a quiet threat.
"Yes, I do," he countered, unwavering, his jaw set.
I wasn't about to let this slide. "Fine, then I'll sign up for the Alpha team too," I said, my voice low but firm, locking eyes with the old man.
"No, you don't!" Des shot up, his words like a crack of thunder.
I stood my ground, folding my arms with deliberate calm. "I can make my own decisions, thank you very much," I said, my gaze never wavering from the old man's. His decision would be final. "Well?"
The old man sneered, his words dripping with disdain. "Do you think that if you join them alone, they can handle the job better?"
Some of my haters even chuckled. I met their gazes with a smile that carried an edge, a quiet promise in the curve of my lips.
"I am never alone," I said, the words heavy with meaning.
The words hung in the air like a declaration, and before anyone could respond, the atmosphere shifted. In the blink of an eye, the temperature plummeted, the air growing heavy, oppressive. Translucent figures began to materialize, their ethereal forms flickering like the faintest shadows in the dark.
The whispers that filled the room weren't from the living. No, these were the voices of the dead, carried on the cold breeze, their words unintelligible but filled with a palpable malice.
"What in the wrath of the Eternal God?" Wick managed to say.
"I don't think the Night God has anything to do about this now," interjected Stefan.
Their eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and disbelief, but it was the old man who reacted most visibly. His gaze, cold and calculating, flickered with something—something not quite fear, but certainly a recognition of just how much he had underestimated me.
I smiled—an almost sweet expression, one that carried no warmth.
"They are my army," I said, my voice laced with power. "Of vengeful spirits."
The moment the corners of my mouth turned up, the room stilled. It was as though the air itself grew heavier, like a predator's breath hanging in the space, suffocating everything around it. The ghosts faded into the background, their pale forms flickering like weak shadows in the presence of something far more dangerous.
For a fleeting moment, even with the room full of spirits, every single pair of eyes were fixed on me. It was then that the hunters truly understood. I had always held back. I could always have been this terrifying.
The old man's sharp eyes flicked to Willingham's, and for the first time, I saw doubt in his stare. He knew this wasn't a mere show of strength—it was a reminder of what I was capable of, of what had been quietly lurking under the surface. The ghosts weren't the true danger here. No, it was me.
But just as quickly as the tension had settled, I released my hold. The weight of my presence lifted, like a suffocating cloud breaking apart to reveal clear skies.
The hunters, who had been frozen in place, slowly relaxed, though some couldn't shake the feeling of being prey. They returned to their usual postures, but there was a wariness in their eyes now, a recognition of the power they had just witnessed. Even the old man seemed to steady himself, though I could see his fingers twitching—like he was testing the limits of his own control.
Willingham's face was unreadable, his sharp gaze now turning back to the table.
I took my seat again and leaned back into my chair—the cool composure I always wore returning as though nothing had happened. My smile remained, a subtle curve at the corner of my lips that promised more than it revealed.
"Now," I said softly, my voice no longer carrying the weight of a storm but still as sharp as ever, "I trust we can continue."
The spectral figures faded from view, their presence lingering like a cold chill in the air. Yet, even as they vanished, the faintest unearthly whispers still echoed, an unsettling reminder that they were never truly gone.
The old man's gaze flickered to Willingham, an unspoken understanding passing between them. A moment of silent calculation. Then, with a curt nod, the head of the table signaled his agreement, his eyes locking onto mine—measuring, weighing the cost of the alliance we had just forged.
"I'll join you," Mica declared. The old man gave another terse nod, sealing the pact.
Even though I knew it wouldn't be easy to fight off the vampires, I knew we had a much better chance.
Des, still seething with anger, stood frozen for a long moment, his fists clenched. He shot me a look that could have cut through steel, but after a frustrated grunt, he sank back into his seat, his displeasure palpable.
"The bait must succeed in drawing out the majority of the vampires," my grandfather said, his eyes locking onto mine with unnerving intensity. The unspoken command in his gaze was clear. "I trust everyone understands the gravity of this?"
He continued without pause, his voice cold and commanding. "Samuel will take position on the right, Asaro on the left. Grimme and Blanche will hold the rear, securing the house and standing by. Upon receiving the signal, they will move in to clear the hideout. Any objections?"
The room fell silent. The meeting, for all its tension, had reached its conclusion. One by one, the hunters began to rise, their footsteps muted as the room slowly emptied.
"You know I won't forgive this for a long time, right?" Des growled, his voice low and dangerous.
"I know," I replied coolly, not flinching.
"I could've handled it!" he snapped, his fists clenching at his sides.
"I know."
"At least you didn't have to piss Willingham off," he sneered, his teeth gritting in frustration.
"I know."
"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl.
"Yes," I grinned, a wicked smirk spreading across my face.
" I shot back, not missing a beat.
"Antisocial!" he snarled, practically vibrating with irritation.
"Hypocrite!" I fired back with a smirk.
"Let's stop now, though..." he said, his voice softening, though the annoyance still lingered in his tone.
"Coward."
"What? Me? A coward?" he asked, utterly offended, his eyes widening. "I'll show you, insolent brat!"
In a flash, he tried to tangle my hair to such an extent, it would've required clippers to undo. So I turned down the next corridor in a slightly disheveled state.